Black Dawn's Clown
by CynicalCynicalCynical
Summary: The slaves are revolting, one vampire is doing research on the irritating new Clown, and the clown herself is preparing for a little outing - this chapter is sort of a bridge onto slightly more earth-shaking events
1. The New Clown

The royal vampires and their aristocratic friends were sitting around in the great   
  
dining hall of the Black Dawn kingdom, waiting for the entertainment to begin.   
  
It wasn't the greatest entertainment, most of them thought. Not quite as amusing as   
  
having a few humans chased through the forests, but passable. It helped them digest   
  
the meals, which, whilst being lavish as always, became monotonous after a few   
  
hundred years. They waited.  
  
The low hum of conversation began to be spiked with loud complaints. The more   
  
restless vampires were becoming impatient. Even mediocre entertainment was   
  
expected to arrive promptly.  
  
The clown was late.  
  
~  
  
A considerable distance away from the palatial vampiric buildings was the primitive   
  
collection of huts where human slaves attempted to scrape an existence. At the   
  
moment the muddy village was silent; the slaves were all working. Someone,   
  
however, was darting around the makeshift streets, muttering and cursing under their   
  
breath.   
  
"Where's the damn coxcomb when yer need it, eh? Oh bugger … I'm late, I'm late …"  
  
It was a female human, dressed in what was probably a pied jester suit, although the   
  
exact colouring of the outfit was difficult to make out under all the mud that had   
  
accumulated on her person. A mass of wiry dark hair hung around her head in a frizzy   
  
halo. As the clown stood still to wring her hands, glaring around at the huts in   
  
desperation, it writhed like a nest of snakes in the wind. Her pointed, rodent-like nose   
  
wrinkled with a frown. She was bloody late. It was only the second performance, and   
  
she could already see it swirling down into the sewers.   
  
"Well, that's it, then." The clown sat down in the mud, sulking dejectedly. "A week of   
  
mild torture and then back to cleaning the privies. Thank you and goodnight.   
  
Goodbye clown."  
  
~  
  
"It is a human, isn't it?" one vampire asked another, as the brooding murmur of the   
  
dining hall increased in volume with steadily growing annoyance. "I mean, it's not one   
  
of us -"  
  
"Of course not," the other one replied. "Although you couldn't tell. All that makeup,   
  
the costume, the stupid act -"  
  
"Gets right in the way of the telepathy waves," another one complained. "Don't know   
  
what the little idiot's going to say next. It's not right, a human having mental privacy   
  
like that. Next thing you know, it'll be going round thinking freely."  
  
"Jumped up little worm," the vampires agreed.   
  
"The point I was trying to make," the first vampire said testily. "Is that it seems   
  
strange to have a human in such an obscure position at all. I mean, since when do we   
  
need a clown? What's wrong with good old fashioned hunting, that's what I'd like to   
  
know -"  
  
"Tradition," the other vampires interrupted.  
  
"But we've never had a clown."  
  
"Not quite true, actually." A little way down the table, a vampire with Know-It-All   
  
practically stamped on her forehead steepled her fingers and smiled. "It is a little   
  
known fact, but we once had a … a court jester, as it were. And of course you   
  
wouldn't expect a vampire to take on such a lowly job as that. Got to be a human, of   
  
course. Although jesters are terribly passé, don't you know. Clowns are all the rage,   
  
these days."  
  
"Same thing, isn't it?" The vampires looked at each other, mystified. The only   
  
traditions they knew of were already in place, used in the kingdom on a daily basis.   
  
They didn't like the sound of this new one.  
  
"Oh no," the smug vampire lady continued, with an emphatic flourish of a pale hand.   
  
"Clowns are so awfully different from jesters, don't you know. Clowns are all the   
  
rage."  
  
"Right …" The first vampire raised an eyebrow, and stared down into his blood cup,   
  
thinking. He was still deep in thought when the rest of the room fell silent.   
  
"Good evening, ladies an' gents!" an uncouth voice yelled from nowhere. "I ain't late,   
  
I'm FASHIONABLE!!!"  
  
The clown leapt wildly from the minstrel gallery like a suicidal dragon, grabbing hold   
  
of a silken banner, which ripped with a loud hiss as it took her weight. Like a pirate   
  
boarding a ship, the black-and-mud-coloured jester swung down onto the wide, empty   
  
floor.   
  
  
  
"Yer ought to know all 'bout fashion, ladies an' gents," the clown continued,   
  
breathless yet still piercingly loud. "Jus' look at yer!"  
  
She took a deep breath, and began the act. It started with mockery of the lesser   
  
aristocrats, working its way right up to the top, ridiculing the purest of blood. The   
  
clown could impersonate them all, walking and talking in a way that showed the   
  
vampires at their most ridiculous. This was no difficult task for the human slave; the   
  
only thing she worried about was the simple question: "Why the hell are they putting   
  
up with this, eh?"  
  
It was tradition.  
  
The vampire Peregrine looked up from the table finally, as someone on his left   
  
nudged him in the ribs.  
  
"That's you, that is," someone said, with a derisive snigger. "Got the swagger and   
  
everything."  
  
Peregrine watched as the clown imitated him. After a few minutes, his face   
  
degenerated into a scowl. It was bloody insulting; it was merely food that could think,   
  
and it was allowed to parade around like that. He ought to kill it. It was a human,   
  
wasn't it? Why wasn't it being hunted down? Why wasn't it working? Was the   
  
kingdom mad? What was the reason behind letting a worm like this parade take such   
  
damn liberties? She wasn't even amusing.   
  
"And I don't walk like that," he muttered, surprised at the petulance in his voice. 


	2. A Bad Audience

There had been a few short bursts of cold, sneering laughter, although the clown noted that the vampires were not adept at detecting punchlines. They had thrown a few things at her - mostly stale bread rolls, since there was little else available at the vampiric banquet that wasn't red and wet. As she bowed, there had been the faintest smattering of grudging applause. It had died quickly.

The vampires were not, the clown reflected, very different from any other bad audience. She was a good enough performer not to let a small thing like an audience full of blood-sucking fiends interfere with the act.

The clown sank back against the mossy wall of the outer castle. She was tired, and stiff with dried mud: it had taken an age of scrabbling in the dirt to free the tri-horned jester cap from its hiding place back at the slave village. Some malicious slave had wedged it under the wheel of a cart, and something that large, made entirely of iron, was a bugger to shift, she thought. 

She pulled off the hat and rattled the crushed bells dejectedly, thinking about the slaves. They hated her as the clown. Entertaining vampires _and living to talk about it afterwards_ was treachery. She didn't care for their theories on treachery - those silly, feeble little creatures, who bowed to the will of the vampires, who cowered before the werewolves, who shivered every time a shape-shifter smiled. All right, so maybe rebelliousness resulted in maiming or death - that was no reason to give up your identities completely. If only they made the effort to at least walk upright, without cowering. If only they would -

"Don't you have a job to do?"

The clown's head jerked up. She blanched under the mask of greasepaint.

~

Peregrine's breath caught in his throat when he saw the clown: a black-and-white pied harlequin of a figure, slouching in the shadows with insolent ease. He was ready to spit blood. How dare it stand there so calmly, after all the vulgar things it had uttered? Why wasn't it locked in the dungeons in the company of a jailer whose only known hobby was creative torture? Why was the slave's cocky rebellious attitude being _allowed?_

His anger and indignation toiled in an attempt to find something suitably caustic to say.

"Don't you have a job to do?" he managed finally, striding towards her. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but words were failing him in his extreme annoyance.

He watched, dumbfounded, as the human completely failed to look even slightly intimidated. His stomach turned over in protest as she slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Eh?"

The vampire choked. "What kind of way to address a superior is that?"

"The quick way?"

"You're not funny." For the second time that night, Peregrine was disturbed at the petulance creeping into his voice. "I didn't find any part of your … your _act_ even remotely amusing."

"Oh." The clown nodded, apparently comfortable with this. "Well, don't worry, mister. If yer don't get the jokes tomorrow night, yer can always ask another bloodsucker to explain 'em to yer, all right, mister?"

Peregrine wondered for a moment whether this might all be a bizarre dream. Slaves _did not_ speak to vampires in that tone of voice. "_Mister?_"

"You saying yer a girl?"

"What? No! I ..." He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, remembered that he was Peregrine Redfern. No slave could talk to him like that and get away with it. "Look. You don't ever speak to me in that … that _inappropriate_ manner again, and I won't give the guards permission to eat your intestines, whilst you watch. All right, slave?"

~

The clown's blood was draining away under her makeup, though she sustained the flippant idiot character for the sake of appearances. You did not let them know you were scared. You made it clear that being ripped limb from limb, whilst messy and unpleasant, was not something of which you were afraid. You sustained your character. You upheld the act. 

Otherwise, the buggers would get into your head, and everyone knew what they could do to your mind, if given half the chance …

"Sounds fair enough, mister. Inappropriate; intestines. Got it." She began to sidle away, she didn't like the look on his face. "Been nice talkin', but now I fink I'll go back to -"

His arm shot out to block her way. Her pulse quickened as she saw the moonlight glinting demonically off his eyes.

"You don't work like the other slaves, human. You are the Clown. Clown is what you are. That is your job, yes?"

"Erm. Yep?"

"_So who the hell employed you?_" he snarled.

"Dunno. Sorry, mister."

Oh bugger … he's going to get violent … I'm as dead as a really dead fing what's been dead for a really long time …

"You weren't assigned a job like the others."

"Nope."

"Someone chose you out of all the other dirty humans to put on a silly costume and play the fool."

"Yer could say that …"

"_Who_ chose you?"

Her voice resounded in the night air several octaves higher than usual. "Dunno."

The vampire grabbed her shoulders, spun her around. She could feel his fingers clawing into her flesh. She found herself staring up into disturbingly dark eyes; haunted tunnels from which ghosts would emerge. Her smirk faded slightly.

"I didn't the like the way you ridiculed me," he growled, deceptively quiet.

Bloody hell … he's madder than the rest of 'em … They'll be picking bits of me off the bloody castle roof in the morning…

"In what way would yer like to be ridiculed, then?" She flinched even as the words left her tongue, but couldn't resist the retort.

The universe held its breath whilst the vampire struggled between manic murder and calm scorn.

~

Peregrine let go. He didn't like touching humans; they were so flawed, so impure. He didn't like violence either, unless it was someoneelse spilling blood all over their best shirt. The calm scornful nature took control once more.

"I'm going to find out who brought back the tradition of court jesters," he began, pinching the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor. His matter-of-fact tone was worse than the manic snarling.

"Oh _no_. Not jesters. _So_ passé. Clowns, darling! _Clowns _are all the rage!" 

He blinked. A flawless impersonation of the fashion-obsessed Lady Amber. He almost smiled. The only thing that held his severely solemn expression in place was the knowledge that showing amusement would only condone this human's vulgarity. He scowled and turned away, heading out into the night.

"I'm going to find out who employed you," he called over his shoulder in the same sadistically matter-of-fact tone. "Because I don't want to see you in the dining hall again. You'll go back to the proper service from which you came, human. You won't last long …"

~

The clown watched the young vampire man leave.

Tall, slender, tapering; the typical vampiric figure.

A sallow, tanned, skin; a faint sheen on the flesh that was common amongst the undead.

A gold hoop earring - the single elaboration to his costume, seemingly incongruous with the staid grey evening outfit.

Haunting eyes.

Such an intense stare.

Trying so hard to be authoritative.

So sincerely bewildered by a pinch of rebellion.

Sadness beneath the manic idealism.

And those haunting eyes …

"What a total and utter prat," the clown concluded, sauntering off in the opposite direction, back to the village of slaves.


	3. Slaves Revolting, Clown Distracting

It was morning in the kingdom of Black Dawn, dew-soaked and cold. 

Back at the village of slaves, the clown's hut had been trashed. It had been in that state for days; the clown hardly ever returned home. Scrawled in her own greasepaint on a cardboard inner wall was the quaint and misspelled little message: 

DiE u VaMpiyRe FrEindD 

The clown had been too tired to notice it upon returning. She slept. Her greasepaint had partially rubbed off; smeared blackness was still clinging to her eyes. Huddled under the ragged fragments of sacking cloth that made up her bed, the clown slept.

She slept, while the other slaves gathered together what was left of their free will, and plotted. It was the first semi-coherent plot to overthrow the vampires that they had formed in a long time. The clown had been a slave of the Black Dawn kingdom for three months, and this was the first plotted rebellion she had witnessed, or at least, the first one she would have witnessed had she been awake to witness it.

One of the slaves drew the clown out of her dreamless sleep. It was not a gentle awakening.

"Aw, bugger off … ow, stoppit … woss 'appening, eh …?" the clown murmured groggily, as a rough hand shook her awake. Her blurred vision focussed, and her eyes came to rest on what was directly in front of her. Something sharp … 

"Bloody 'ell." The clown sat up cautiously, automatically putting up her hands. "Where'd yer get a dangerous fing like that, eh?"

The slave in front of her was tall, but his shoulders had taken on an automatically hunched stance: the result of a few years of enforced humility. His voice quavered slightly, as though he had forgotten what it was like to be on the giving end of orders. "You … shut up. Or … I'll have to use it."

The clown smirked slightly, sensing a façade. And if anyone was an expert on putting up a front, it was her …

"Look 'ere, you," she said, not unkindly, pushing aside the bolt of the stolen crossbow with an assertive finger. "Yer don't want to go pointin' that at the wrong person now, do yer? Let's not mess about, eh? Watcha want wiv me?"

~

Peregrine was hunched over a table, a candle stub beside him: a sphere of light amongst towers and mountains of murky books. In the cavernous oak crypt that was the castle's library, the lone vampire was the only area of movement, furiously flicking through the pages of leather-bound tomes that had not been glanced at for possibly a century or two. But then again …

His dark eyes pinned down the detail that had been tweaking the edges of his mind. His pale fingers froze in the action of turning a page. The heavy volumes he had taken the trouble to find had not been touched, or so he thought, for years at least. They were covered in the grey powder of time to a thickness of almost half an inch. Colonies of spiders had made their homes in the spines. There was enough dust to kill an asthmatic from twenty paces. And yet …

He leaned closer, eyes narrowed.

Fingerprints in the dust, too small to be his own. That was the incongruous detail.

He glanced at the titles of the books again. Traditions, rituals, ceremonies, events. They were all about the ancient foundations of Black Dawn, and some weren't even printed. Some were written by hand, by someone with enough time on their hands to note every small aspect of the stilted procedures that revolved around the royal family of the kingdom. Someone who liked attention to detail. Someone who wanted future generations to remember. Someone who _really _needed to get out more and meet new people ...

Peregrine slammed the book shut, regretting it immediately when the resulting cloud of dust and grime blinded him. Coughing, choking, eyes screwed shut, the vampire staggered out of the room. Outside in the damp corridor, he paused to brush the cobwebs out of his hair. Appearances were important - especially since there were people to see, matters to discuss …

~

There were slaves clustered around the pile of rags that was the bed of the clown. The young woman herself was gazing up at the crowd of emaciated, hollow-eyed figures with something approaching amusement. They believed they were threatening her. The clown felt as though she was being held hostage by damp tissue paper. 

She blinked as they told her what their plot consisted of.

"Yer want me to what?" She couldn't help sniggering. "Don't be daft, I ain't doing that."

The slaves repeated themselves, slowly, carefully, and with more vehement gesturing with the crossbow. The seemingly damp tissue paper had needles in it. The clown listened, sighed, and scowled. She could already tell: this was not going to be a good morning.

"Fine, no worries. I'll be yer distraction. But I ain't happy 'bout it, for anyone who cares." 

There was a pointed silence.

"All right, all right," the clown snarled, dragging herself out of the tangled rags of bedding. She was pretending to ignore the crossbow. "When are yer doing this whole plot fing, anyways … What?" She blinked. "Wathca mean, right now? I been performin' all night … all right, _fine_. No need to get all stroppy 'bout it. Jus' put yer pointy fing down, all right? Yer little plot ain't going to work, o' course … all right, I ain't saying I won't try me best. For crying out loud ..."

Muttering venomously, she began scrabbling amongst her scattered possessions for clothing and greasepaint sticks. Then she glanced up, and the clown saw the trashed mess for the first time. There was one thing very wrong with it. 

"All right, which one o' you buggers went an' nicked me coxcomb again, eh? Yer'd fink it were funny or somefink …"


End file.
